“Has anyone been back to the father’s house?”
Takamäki asked. “He’s got to be sleeping somewhere... If he doesn’t have any friends, then let’s check the old places one more time.”
“We can go by there again,” Joutsamo said. “But this looks like it’s headed for passive investigation pretty fast. No point dedicating much more effort to it.”
Takamäki tried to drum up enthusiasm. “We’re not giving up just yet. There’s one trick we haven’t tried yet.”
“Give it to the papers?” Joutsamo guessed.
Takamäki nodded and read from a handwritten draft. “The headline reads ‘Helsinki Police Seek Tips on Escaped Murderer.’”
Kulta smiled. “Not likely to make it to press in that format.”
“It’s not supposed to,” the lieutenant retorted. “The rest goes more or less like this, ‘On Monday morning, Timo Repo, serving life for murder, escaped from his father’s funeral...’”
Joutsamo interrupted, “Do we have to say that he fled from the funeral?”
“Let me respond with another question,” Takamäki said. “Why should we keep it a secret? It’s not significant in terms of our investigation, and we have to give them some details. If we send out a press release with no details, the papers will ignore it, which means we won’t get any response.”
“Okay.”
“Anyway, this goes on to say that Repo left the Restaurant Perho and headed toward downtown Helsinki. Since then, police have not received reports of any sightings, and are now asking the public for help. Then there’s a description of him.”
“Aren’t you going to send a photo?” Joutsamo asked.
“Not yet,” Takamäki said.
“Why not?”
“It might get us another round in the media a couple days from now if this one doesn’t work. I did put here at the end that Repo was convicted of murdering his wife in Riihimäki in 1999. The police do not consider Repo particularly dangerous.”
“Why does it say ‘particularly dangerous?’” Kulta asked.
“Should we put ‘completely harmless?’” Takamäki retorted.
“Somewhat dangerous, potentially dangerous, a smidgen dangerous?” Kulta mused.
Takamäki grunted. “I can drop the ‘particularly’ if we all agree that the guy isn’t dangerous.”
“Yeah,” said Suhonen. “The thing that still gets me about this case is, why did he check out? He’s already got eight years behind him. There’s gotta be some reason, and that’s still the big mystery here.”
“The reporters will probably ask that, too,” Kulta reflected. “And don’t tell them ‘No comment,’ either.”
Takamäki chuckled. “I won’t. I’m perfectly capable of saying, ‘We don’t know.’”
“And then their next question will be, how do you know he’s not dangerous if you don’t know the motive for his escape?” Joutsamo added.
“Well, that’s why I have ‘particularly dangerous.’”
Now it was Kulta’s turn to grunt. “Okay, leave the ‘particularly’ in.”
“Did we have anything else?”
“I’ve got a deck of cards over in my desk if anyone’s up for a round of poker,” Suhonen said.
“Texas Hold’em,” Kulta suggested.
Takamäki stood before Joutsamo got the words out. “I don’t know if it means anything, but when I went through his papers up in Riihimäki, something about the case started to bother me.”
“What?” Takamäki asked.
“I don’t know, but at least the fact that it was considered a cut-and-dried case right from the start. Doesn’t seem like the detectives even tried looking into any other alternatives.”
“Ainola over at the prison reviewed the paperwork and said Repo definitely was the perpetrator,” Suhonen said.
“I’m not saying I have any facts to back me up. I just have a feeling that things aren’t exactly the way they should be.”
“They all think they’re innocent,” Kulta said.
Takamäki looked at Joutsamo. It wasn’t like her to raise something like this if there was nothing to it.
“Well, try and think, maybe it’ll come to you. We’ll see at that point. I’ll send this out to the media and let’s go find this Saarnikangas, see if he can tell us something. Let’s keep our eyes and ears open, people.”
* * *
The clock on the fourth-floor editorial offices of Iltalehti read 3:34 p.m. Times from around the world were supposed to be displayed by a row of clocks, but according to them, the time in London, Tokyo, and Los Angeles was the same as in Helsinki. All that was left of New York was the sign; the clock itself had disappeared.
Marja Juvonen was playing solitaire on her computer in the rear corner of the quiet newsroom. Her thoughts, however, were on the previous night’s party at the Lux nightclub. Her headache wouldn’t let her forget, even though 600 mg of ibuprofen was keeping it at bay.
The large editorial offices were crammed with desks and computers. Juvonen had managed to get a corner spot where her back was against the exterior wall, so none of the bosses could take her by surprise—unless they’d rent a crane and check her computer screen through the window behind her back.
There was another good thing about her spot. It was as far as possible from the editorial office refrigerator, which had been nicknamed “the haz,” for hazardous waste disposal. One of the graphic artists had once wrapped crime scene tape across its door.
Juvonen considered going for a smoke, but the broken ventilator in the smoking room drove her crazy. It crackled and popped nonstop. Generally speaking, the editorial offices were fetid. Up on the sixth floor, in Ad Sales and Accounting, things were completely different: tidy, clean, and spacious. Why do those brown-nosers in Ad Sales have it better than we do, Juvonen wondered as she clicked away at her computer.
Her operating system didn’t include any built-in games, but Juvonen had plenty of online games in her bookmarks. The thirty-four-year-old reporter had originally worked for a small-town paper, but a summer internship had been her ticket to getting a permanent job at Iltalehti, one of Finland’s largest tabloids. She had started her career with a byline of “Marja Juvonen,” but after coming to Iltalehti, she had started using the more pompous, pseudo-international “Mary J. Juvonen.” Mary J. hated the crime reporting she had gotten stuck with. She would have preferred arts and entertainment, but one incident had blocked her career in the entertainment field.
Mary J. didn’t try to hide it, though. Just last night she had told her life story again to someone at the nightclub, although she didn’t remember who. “So I fucking said to him, ‘Who do you think you are?’ And he said, ‘An artist.’ And I said, ‘My neighbor’s Great Dane drops five pounds of art hotter than yours on my doorstep every morning. So let’s try again: So, who do you think you are?’ And the asshole called the editor-in-chief and that was it for working in the arts, ever. So here I get to shovel shit at the crime desk while those MBA assholes sip rosé at record company parties.”
“Mary Jane!” Her managing editor was shouting at her from the news desk, fifty feet away.
Juvonen jumped slightly and reflexively clicked away her game, revealing her emails.
“Yeah, whaddaya want?”
“How’s your hangover? Still feel like someone dropped a jug on your head?” Managing editor Ragnar Johansson was bellowing loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Who do you think you are? My jugs are bigger than that ridiculous little peashooter you have,” Mary Jane retorted.
“We need a front-page story.” This time, fifty-year-old Ruthless Ragnar shouted so loudly that the dozen or so reporters in the room lifted their heads. “We’re not going to sell any papers by reporting that the prime minister wants to raise pension contributions. I want some real news. That crap-rag is going to splash some scandal, and our papers’ll be left behind on the racks.”
Juvonen registered the epithet Johansson used to refer to their primary c
ompetitor, Ilta-Sanomat. It was a good measure of his state of mind. If Ruthless Ragnar was in a good mood, the Ilta-Sanomat was a “neighbor” or “our dear adversary.” “Crap-rag” and “toilet paper” were neutral expressions. In bad moments—which were frequent—the epithets were truly malicious, and Ragnar was a verbally gifted man.
Juvonen glanced at her email to see if she’d find a lifesaver there. She noticed a press release from Homicide lieutenant Takamäki and clicked it open. The headline read, “Helsinki Police Seek Information on Escaped Murderer.”
“Hey, Ragnar,” Mary Jane called out. “Is an escaped murderer good enough?”
Johansson chuckled theatrically. “Goddammit, is it good enough? You’re gonna save my day again. We’ll go with that if nothing better turns up. A murderer stalking a new victim. Front page and we’ll get a full spread out of it, if not more. Mary Jane, Välkki, and Karhunen, get over here, let’s take a look.”
The editorial meeting began thirty seconds later. Ruthless Ragnar was in his element. He boasted an impressive record: of the ten highest-selling front pages of all time, six were his. None of the other managing editors had matched his achievement, but they all thought Ragnar had just been lucky in terms being on duty when big news broke.
The bravado of a moment ago had shifted into a businesslike enthusiasm. Mary was allowed to sit in the empty chair at the table in the middle of the room, while Välkki and Karhunen, both thirty-year-old men in cardigans, stood.
“Mary, who is this escapee?”
“I’m not really sure. Timo Repo, fifty years old. Killed his wife in the ’90s.”
“He didn’t just kill her if he’s doing life, he murdered her.”
“Yes,” Juvonen agreed. “Right you are.”
“Okay, let’s start from the spread. Välkki will look into this Repo’s background. Who he is.”
Bespectacled Välkki nodded and left. There wasn’t much time left in the day, and he had to find out which district or appeals court had sentenced Repo to life.
Johansson turned to Karhunen and his receding hairline. “Karhunen, I want a piece on someone who knows this Repo. Let’s get a human angle on this. Välkki will probably pull up the verdict. If necessary, call every name on it. Also check all the media archives. Do we have photos of him? Of his wife’s relatives? Can we find anyone who was at the wife’s funeral? Who’s afraid of him?”
Karhunen rubbed his forehead and went back to his computer.
“And Mary Jane,” Ruthless Ragnar smiled crookedly. “From you I want a piece on the police search—no, make that a manhunt! Drama, pictures,” Johansson said, painting a spread-wide headline with his hands. “‘Police Hunt Dangerous Fugitive.’ Nah, that’s boring. Come up with something better. Action, danger, fear!”
Mary J. quickly browsed through the eight-line press release she had printed. She’d milk a spread out of it no problem, but the photos looked like they might be a little trickier.
* * *
Takamäki was sitting at his desk. His phone rang as soon as he ended the previous call. The female crime reporter from Ilta-Sanomat had been the first to call, but Sanna Römpötti from Channel 3 TV News came in second. It had only been four minutes since the release had been sent out.
“Hello,” he said in an official tone.
“Hey there, Takamäki,” said Römpötti. She had been a crime reporter for about twenty years, and had made the leap to TV news from Helsingin Sanomat newspaper a few years ago. “Römpötti here.”
“Hi,” Takamäki changing to a friendly tone.
“Prison escape, huh?”
“Yeah, but it’s not that fascinating. We’ve been looking for him for a couple of days, just can’t find him anywhere. That’s why we’re going to the media with it, see if the public can help us out,” Takamäki explained. He didn’t think an escapee no one had ever heard of would break the TV news threshold.
“Okay,” Römpötti said. “I’ll check back.”
“Sounds good,” the lieutenant replied, and the call ended.
Takamäki’s phone rang again. “Hello.”
“Juvonen from Iltalehti. It’s Takamäki, right?”
“Good guess.”
“Great,” Juvonen said. “About Repo. Who is he?”
Takamäki thought for a second. Römpötti may have been recording the call, but Juvonen definitely was. Every word he said could and probably would appear in tomorrow’s paper, or probably on their website yet that evening. “Timo Repo is a prisoner serving life who has escaped. He was convicted of murdering his wife.”
“So it’s a real escape, not some unauthorized leave?”
“Yes. The incident has been recorded as prisoner escape, per Chapter 16 of the Penal Code. Penalties include a fine or at most a year’s prison sentence. The Prison Department requested the assistance of the police.”
Juvonen paused for a moment, and Takamäki guessed she was taking notes.
“At most a year’s imprisonment, so it doesn’t meet the criteria for a wire-tap warrant?”
“No, but we don’t have a phone number to listen in on either. Otherwise we’d give Repo a call and ask him to come on down to the station.”
“How dangerous is he?” Juvonen asked.
“We don’t consider him to be particularly dangerous.”
“What does that mean?”
Here we go, Takamäki thought. “He was convicted of murder, so in principle he can be considered dangerous. But we’re not aware of any factors that would make him particularly dangerous.”
“Why did he flee?”
Goddammit, Takamäki thought, trying to keep his voice steady. “We haven’t had the opportunity to question him, so we don’t know. Yet.”
“Does this Repo belong to a criminal gang?”
“According to our information, no, he does not.”
Juvonen quizzed Takamäki further about the escape. Takamäki told her about the funeral, the coffee and sandwiches afterwards, and Repo’s flight.
“Huh. Doesn’t it annoy the police when the prison authorities let prisoners escape like that?”
“Well,” Takamäki measured his words. “The prison authorities do their job and we do ours. It’s not any more complicated than that.”
Juvonen laughed. “Okay, so the search is on, then?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I’m not going to reveal that now.”
“But raids are taking place?”
“Of course we continuously conduct searches of residences in cases like these,” Takamäki said, a little tiredly.
“The SWAT team is on the move?”
“We haven’t called them.”
“But you will if necessary?”
Takamäki considered how he could answer this one. If he said no, he’d be lying, because of course the SWAT team would be used if a dangerous situation arose. If he answered yes, the following sentence would appear in the paper: “The police are ready to call in the SWAT units,” which was an overstatement. But Takamäki didn’t want to lie.
“If necessary, of course, they’ll be called in.”
“Could we come along and get some footage of a SWAT operation?” Juvonen tossed out.
“No.”
“Just thought I’d ask.”
“Was there anything else?” Takamäki asked.
“Yes,” Juvonen answered. “A photo of this Repo? Just email it over.”
“No can do,” Takamäki said. “We decided we’re not going to distribute it yet.”
Juvonen was irritated. “What the hell? Why not?”
Takamäki paused for a moment. “If I say no, it means no.”
“Are you serious? You don’t want to catch him even just a little bit?”
“This is the decision I made in this case. I don’t need to justify it to you.”
“Who do you think you are?” Juvonen continued. She was upset that there would be a huge gap in the photos now. “We’d print it in the paper for f
ree. Next time you guys can buy ad space when you want us to help you find someone.”
Takamäki smiled. Mary J. Juvonen hadn’t changed a bit. “All right, talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.
CHAPTER 9
TUESDAY, 5:10 P.M.
TOPELIUS STREET, TÖÖLÖ, HELSINKI
Repo was standing at a bus stop on Topelius Street, watching the traffic headed toward the Women’s Hospital. He was still wearing the black suit and the gray coat he had stolen from the restaurant. He had taken an old-fashioned cap from Karppi’s house and pulled it down over his forehead.
Darkness had already fallen. Half a dozen people were waiting at the bus stop. None of them appeared interested in him. His father’s documents were in a plastic bag, as was the Luger, now wrapped in newspaper.
Bus number fourteen thundered up and everyone else boarded, but Repo just kept waiting. He wasn’t interested in buses. What he needed was a car.
Karppi didn’t have one, so Repo was going to have to get one by other means. He had concluded that he didn’t have the know-how to steal any of the cars parked near Karppi’s place, so he needed not only a car but the key to it as well. Repo knew how to jack an old-fashioned Saab 99, because all you needed to do to start them was to yank off the lock mechanism and stick a screwdriver into the exposed screw. Saab 99s, popular in the ’70s, were extremely rare these days, though.
Repo had left Karppi’s house an hour ago and travelled to Töölö by bus and tram. He had been standing at the stop for about ten minutes, but not a single suitable person had shown up yet.
One of the cars headed in the direction of the Women’s Hospital braked, and the driver smoothly backed his Nissan into a parking spot. A man of about sixty in a blue peacoat stepped out and took a gym bag from the trunk. This guy might work, Repo thought, and started following him.
The man in the peacoat walked across the street toward the Töölö swimming pool, which was located in the basement of the Occupational Health Institute. It was ten yards or so to the door. Repo noted the sticker indicating surveillance cameras and held his head down so the brim of his cap shaded his face. A dozen or so stairs led downwards.
Helsinki homicide: Cold Trail Page 9